Thursday, April 16, 2015

“It says right across your forehead, integrity for
sale,” isn’t just a catchy Nickelback lyric. It’s a reflection of our times. It’s
also a hard cultural truth we are constantly being forced to face by
those who, whether intentionally or not, take the public stage hostage and use
it as a platform to show the world just how despicable and stupid a human being can be.

For us Canadians, though, this cultural pain was
largely, at least ostensibly, felt vicariously through our neighbors to the south: Those living
large, gun-slinging, fast-food, Walmart Americans with their bizarre,
over-the-top celebrity worship and cartoon politics.

But then the Mayor of Toronto, Rob Ford, and his long
suffering wife, Renata, came along like a counter-superhero with a cunnilingus-receiving sidekick to ruin the day and obliterate any smugness Canadians might have been
harbouring regarding their superior level-headedness and decorum.

He is Rob Ford! The Apologizing Man! His special anti-power
is his sincere-insincere apology…sincerely.

It would in fact appear that he never leaves his house without an apology in his right pocket
and up until relatively recently a crack pipe in his left.

And while the call of fate might have forced Rob Ford to put his crack pipe down in order to deal with a physical body that will no longer cooperate with his base desires, nothing will EVER make him give up his Special-Shield-Apology-Badge. Give me apology or give me death! He defiantly keeps it with him at all times for those inevitable
occasions when he still needs to publicly apologize.

In the past, he has found this badge of dishonor useful
in situations where he has been caught in drunken stupors while jay-walking or getting
high in the midst of plotting the demise
of one of his many perceived enemies.

When he’s caught doing or saying something he really should not – which he always gets caught
– he whips out his badge with an unsteady hand, staggers to his knees and
offers up an apology after the fact, the way a sinner prays for forgiveness while committing his sins. The difference is that unlike the praying hypocrite, Rob, the Apologizing
Hypocrite, falls to his knees not out of genuine contrition, but because he is weak
in more ways than one and letting empty words drool out of his mouth requires a
lot less effort than being accountable.

Basically, this privileged, undisciplined bowling ball of a man has made a deal with the devil – albeit a Looney
Tunes Tasmanian one – in which integrity has been exchanged for addiction and all
the corruption and soul-erosion that goes hand-in-hand with the kind of
self-indulgent substance and food abuse Rob Ford enjoys.

No one can know for sure if Robby Boy, whose denial is
so great he refers to himself in the third person because he cannot bear to accept the buffoon that he is in
first person, ever had any integrity to begin with. But if he did, he lost it
along with the definition of “sincerely”.

He has made so many public apologies using the word “sincerely”,
when clearly he is NOT sincere, that one has to wonder if he has dyslexia in
addition to his other glaring issues.

It is as if he believes the word “sorry” literally works
like a delete key and that its mere utterance completely erases deplorable
behavior, as if the behavior never happened in the first place. He has
convinced himself of this so thoroughly that he actually becomes self-righteously
offended when asked by reporters and others to explain himself.

He has never understood what the problem is. As far as
he’s concerned, he might be a man who likes to have a good time outside of his
job, but so what! Who doesn’t? And sure, he’s “a little rough around the edges”,
but he’s also a man who “calls a spade a spade” and up until his unfortunate
liposarcoma diagnosis never missed a day of work.

Rob also likes to point out, all apologizing aside, that
he really is a good guy who, for example, NEVER took advantage of the free zoo
pass to which he was entitled as a council member and NOT just because he's a baboon fearful of zoos. He is quite proud of all his
self-sacrifice, as any self-congratulating baboon would be.

He furthermore thought it was a DISGRACE that other counsellors, who don't even resemble zoo animals, wouldwaste taxpayer dollars by
taking advantage of ANY of the varied perks allowed them. Rob Ford, for one, would
NEVER rip off the electorate in such a blatantly unfair way.

While other counsellors were living large with free
metro passes, for instance, Mayor Ford resigned himself to blasting around in
his own gas-guzzling Cadillac Escalade using fuel he paid for himself. He furthermore apologized
REPEATEDLY for many, many things and continues to do so. What’s the problem? He’s
sorry. There is nothing more he can do.

Watching any one of Rob Ford’s apologies, absurd
rationalizations and deep affronts to the social order is the funniest thing to ever happen to Canadian
news. He will be missed.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Watermelon seeds are responsible for my divorce. I love
watermelon. Unfortunately, my former husband, John, did not. He despised
anything to do with watermelons, particularly the seeds.

He hated watermelon seeds so much that after a few
years of wedded bliss, these seemingly innocuous black ovules caused him to fly
into a blind, murderous rage. In a flurry of watermelon induced madness he massacred the last and final watermelon I ever brought
into our marriage.

I had never seen this psychotic side of John before,
although if anything was going to make him lose it, watermelon seeds would be
the thing. The only time I ever saw him get agitated about ANYTHING was when
watermelon seeds were involved. The rest of the time, during our marriage
anyway, he was pretty much sedate, much like any insentient object – perhaps a
watermelon but without the color or finesse.

The first summer of our union that I brought a
watermelon home from the market, John was mildly annoyed. He said he was not
a watermelon fan and would prefer it if I refrained from buying them.

"Watermelons have NO redeeming qualities," he
informed me with disdain.

"They are 95% water and seeds. If you're thirsty, drink a
glass of water! There's much less mess that way. Besides, there's nothing
appealing about the taste of watermelon. You don't hear people say, 'I'm
thirsty; I could really use a drink of watermelon' do you? NO! They want a
sports drink or plain water. Watermelon is disgusting and nobody wants to drink
it."

"Don't be absurd," I retorted with a laugh.
"Watermelons are tasty and refreshing and an excellent source of vitamin
C. They also happen to be MY favorite fruit."

And herein was the root of our irreconcilable
differences.

"That's fine," John countered,
"but I LOATHE watermelon and if you have any respect for me as your
husband you won't bring another one of those monstrosities into this
house!"

Monstrosity?

"Yeah, that's right," he snarled. "A
fruit shouldn't be that big. It's a stupid size for a fruit. Why can't they
make a watermelon the size of a grapefruit? There is no place to put a
watermelon because it's so huge! You have to use a whole roll of Saran Wrap to
cover it and even that can't keep it from leaking all over the fridge! You need
a freaking garbage bag to contain the thing!"

"But...," he sputtered with bits of spittle
spewing from his mouth, "do you know what the worst thing about a watermelon is?!"

John had really worked himself up into a lather and
there was no stopping him.

"The worst part is the seeds! You find seeds for
weeks on the bottoms of your feet and in between your toes! And don't tell me
there is any such thing as a 'seedless' watermelon! They should be called the
'not so easy to see' or the ‘not as many seeds as regular watermelon’ melons!"

I had never heard John say so many words at one
sitting. His rant, however, did not prevent me from bringing more watermelons into the house.
Every watermelon season I continued to purchase the fruit unabated. In turn, John's rage
escalated in direct proportion to the growing heap of watermelon rinds I haphazardly tossed in our compost.

The last straw (or final seed) came in the ninth year of marriage. I
was in bed reading when I heard a horrible kind of screeching, yowling, stampeding
sound. It was like a cat was being ganged up on by a porcupine and a
hippopotamus, and one of these creatures was in terrible pain.

It turned out the creature was John. He burst into
the bedroom like a wild beast, and thrust a black watermelon seed in my face,
"I found SEVEN of these things stuck to my foot and THIS one was INSIDE my
big toe!"

Unmoved, I replied, "That's weird – how could it get 'inside' your big
toe? Do you mean it was stuck between your toes again?"

He was heaving and angrily glared at me with flaring
nostrils. He was ridiculous. How could anyone not laugh under these
circumstances?

"Oh, you think this is FUNNY?!”, he screeched. “That's
IT! I'm putting an end to these watermelons once and for all!"

He stormed out of the room as fast as he came in.

Then suddenly, for the first time in our marriage, his watermelon rage
did not seem so comical and I felt a twinge of alarm. I got out of bed and ran
after him to see what he was going to do and possibly stop him from doing it.

There he was, with the glint of hysteria in his eyes
and a butcher knife held up high over his head. I screamed "Stop!"
and lunged forward, but it was too late. He plunged the knife into the
watermelon over and over again, with chunks of red flesh splattering all over
the kitchen and all over John.

I tried to wrestle the knife from him, but he'd already
massacred that watermelon to an unrecognizable, pulpy abomination of nature. By
the time he let go of the knife, he had crumpled to the floor, amidst the
watermelon carnage, and proceeded to sob uncontrollably.

Needless to say, that was the end of John and our marriage. The
last I heard, he had to be institutionalized during a business trip to China.
Apparently he had a mental breakdown while scouting a new venture: The Zhen
Institute of Watermelon.

Monday, April 13, 2015

In the quest for happiness, people can unwittingly kill
the very contentment they hope to capture. Theirs is a kind of caged happiness,
which is no more genuine than caged freedom. Eventually dejection sets in and a
dejected person is an unhappy person.

But is unhappiness really such an undesirable thing?
Perhaps there is comfort in misery. There are certainly enough miserable people
around to keep the unhappy from feeling they are alone.

For those who are sick and tired of hunting down that
elusive happy camper, learning how to be unhappy might be the way to go. The
key is to remain locked in a perpetual fog of negativity and hopelessness in
four easy steps. Unhappiness will surely follow.

♦Negative Ruminations

First, be sure to dwell on the negative aspects of any
given situation, person or thing, no matter how seemingly positive. This
pessimism is easy when the circumstance is overtly tragic like a betrayal,
death, financial ruin or injury. However, for true, far-reaching unhappiness,
one must also look for the downside in every rainbow, sunset, birthday party,
holiday, new relationship, job advancement, financial gain and personal
accomplishment. Adopt the mantra that for every good thing in life there is
always a downside. Every reward has a punishment and every accomplishment a
failure.

♦Complain

Second, complain about the impossibility of your
circumstances and do nothing to improve them, even when solutions are presented
to you. Argue that you are a victim of the world and there is absolutely zilch
that you can do about it. As you complain, frequently use the word
"but", particularly when others give you practical advice. Never
challenge yourself to act, unless it is in the role of victim.

Since you will already be engaged in negative ruminations,
openly complaining should be the natural next step. Grumble about everything
and anything — blighted hope, the weather, taxes, the neighbors, the state of
the world and physical ailments are all possible subjects.

♦Shun Gratitude

Third, do not be grateful. This goes hand in hand with
pessimism. Gratitude is only for happy fools and you’re no fool. You are too
disillusioned to be thankful and you like it that way. Do not appreciate the
air you breathe, the good health others less enlightened than you might enjoy,
the gifts you are given, the people who claim to love you, or the lucky breaks
you endure.

The instant you experience appreciation and say thank
you, you run the risk of becoming happy. Rather than have this happen, hold the
belief that the world, God/Goddess or whatever
owes you and anything you receive is compensation for simply being alive. It is
other people and not you who should be grateful for the honor of having you
walk the planet.

♦Ignore the Present

Fourth, never live in the present and always look
forward to what is certain to be the bleak future. Remain in a constant state
of worry and doubt about the probability of misfortune around the next bend.

Anything positive that might be happening in the moment
is not worth appreciating because you know it will not last. Why waste
emotional energy on fleeting sources of happiness and future disappointment
when you can be unhappy at the current time? Better to conserve endorphins and
embrace malcontent today.

Besides, everything comes to an end – all things must
die. In fact, the whole purpose of the present is to plan for your inevitable
demise. You started dying the day you were conceived. How can you possibly
enjoy the present when mortality looms overhead and death is where you're
heading?

Finally, by following the above steps with
narrow-mindedness and perseverance your unhappiness is virtually guaranteed. Do
worry – be unhappy.

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Lilith did not know Betrayal was a physical assault. She assumed
it was an emotion that momentarily devastated the mind, and if you believed in
such things, slowly eroded the soul, but had no actual physical manifestation. No bloody nose.

But it isn’t true. Betrayal hits all three
spheres of mind, body and soul. It attacks every perception, right into the darkest recesses of the subconscious and comes unbidden, physically forcing
its way out of every part of you and manifesting in pain.Physically, mentally
and spiritually, it crucifies you.

In retrospect, she supposes she should have known better. Retrospect, however, was of no use to her when Betrayal
slammed into her so hard that acid tears spewed from her eye sockets
like lava and waves of shock avalanched
down her spine, crushing vertebrae like dominoes and then reaching around
to squeeze her heart tight enough to make her believe she would die.

But death at that instance would have been a relief and
the assault wasn’t over yet.

Her heart’s agony was ruthlessly ignored even as it pounded,
begged and screamed for all its life to get out of its rib-encaged prison.

But Betrayal continued its torment without mercy,
bringing Lilith to her knees with such speed and intensity she felt the physicalpain of her limbs fracturing into shards
of cartilage and bone. There was tissue and cellular debris as Betrayal
torpedoed through every atom of her being, sadistically seeking out pain
receptors and nerve endings with which to intensive the brutality of its
attack.

When it had done its job, leaving her flesh ripped open to
reveal the insides of her, Betrayal calmly walked away, like one of nature’s instinct-driven
beasts, unperturbed at what it had done and having no awareness whatsoever that
it and its actions were an abomination. The Beast of Betrayal was thus not
moved to compassion by the sights and sounds of Lilith's suffering, but rather was
annoyed in an almost off-hand way by the sound of her uncontrollable whimpering,
the gnashing of her teeth and the crushing of her dislocated jaw. To the Beast,
witnessing the excruciating torture of her body and soul was a mild annoyance,
like swiping at a single fruit fly buzzing by.

It didn’t care. No one cared. Lilith lay there, fallen, believing she'd never be able to move her broken bones or dry her oozing wounds on her own, that she would need someone.

But no one came. She lay there for an eternity, hoping death would finally just do its job and put her out of her agony, but discovered even death had
deserted her. Left with no other choice, she gathered herself from her fallen position of heaped-up, forgotten kindling
and ever so slowly rose back to life like the sparks of a newly created fire.

Say my name, he said,As if we both didn't know;Ripped the hair from my head,And told me this was hisshow.But I refused to say his name,No surrender from me.He can live with his shame;I will not beg for mercy.Prodded, bull-baited,A body thrown in a pit.My independence hated,Kicked, bitten and hit.But cut off my lips,Blind my eyes,Gut me from throat to hips,Let my entrails bring on the flies.I will not be his fool,A puppet of fear.I'll stand in a bloody pool,I won’t shed a tear.He can hurt me with all his might,But say his name? I'd rather die.Or emerge from this fight,My own name a victory cry.

It's my life and my demise;Don't presume to speak for me.This should come as no surprise;Do not tamper with my mortality.It's my soul and my salvation;Don't presume to fear for me.It is you who suffers indignation;Do not impose your morality.It's my wisdom and my belief;Don't presume to know better than I.Existence might be brief,But to live one also must die.These laws of nature hold no shame;Don't presume to mourn for me.For I'll return from whence I came,Recycled into a new reality.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

There is choice and there is freewill say the consumers of spectacle, directors of fate: Dirty ecstasy fed by pure misery.

In a country well governed, poverty is something to be ashamed of.

In a country badly governed, wealth is something to be ashamed of

― Confucius

It's all in good fun: the poverty, the degradation, the addiction, the insanity, the pain, the suffering and the sin punishable by eternal hell. They – the consumers of miserable spectacle and partakers of freewill – drive down the garbage strewn streets of the East Side, as if they are sauntering down the popcorn littered aisles of a movie theatre.

The shows are tragic, satirical, alluring, perverse, deserving of contempt and ridicule. But the choice is up to the spectator: a game and not someone's reality. The unwitting players are game pieces, the consequence of amusement. They dress in spandex and torn denim and have scabbed, ruddy complexions. They need money and compassion, but the spectators deal strictly in Monopoly funds.

The elite audience, the watchers, falsely proposition the indigent and stigmatized and then laugh with windblown freedom in the wake of so much despair. Their carefree Mustang low-profile wheels whiz by the prostitutes and beggars, the psychotic, mentally challenged and the physically disabled. Reckless disregard that comes with dominance paralleled by the oppressive consequences of recklessness. Exquisite madness echoed by laughter.

"Hey Mister, ya need a hand?!"

More laughter.

The veteran amputee wearily looks up in time to see the blur of gel-tipped streaks and tanned, steroid-pumped biceps — one man's lost limb a found treasure of conviviality for those with privilege.

A penny hits a woman in worn-out stilettos like a hard flick. They assume she’s a hooker and dispensable.

Penny for your thoughts? More laughter.

She trips and looks up angrily. Privilege drives by celebrating as usual — a show for them, but for her the painful sting of an unanticipated projectile. But she is as habituated to the stigmata that clings to her as those kids are to their entitlement, so she carries on, limping down the street. What else can she do?

The woman passes George who caresses his brown paper bag, alcohol-stained along the edges. He doesn't care about anything and he too is accustomed to the stigmata of his skin. But he doesn't like to think about it and stumbles along in drunken oblivion. He vaguely hears the celebration – the hoots and hollering of the "rebellious" young people who mistake conformity to the status quo for rebellion. George lets out a half-hearted, slurred "yahoo" in response. He still recalls, like a nagging at the darkest recesses of his mind, when life was fun.

He has financial restitution tucked into his boot from the government man and lawyer guy. He doesn't remember their names, but he recalls the memories they lured out of the deep crevices of his pillaged mind and quickly shakes his head. He clutches his paper bag and takes a big chug. This is why his cash is almost gone – he spends it chasing those unwanted recollections with whisky as if it’s his choice, as if he has any control over his tremulous hands or the relentless voice in his head demanding he drink.

He worries during rare lucid moments of what will happen when the blood money runs out. He knows as well as anyone that money is finite, but memories are until death do you part. Without the booze, those once repressed memories will no longer be biting at his heels – they’ll be eating him alive and wolfing him down in agonizing chunks.

Money might buy his poison and a bed for the night, but it doesn't buy away the priests with their molesting hands or the nuns with their generous whips. He hears his great grandmother's language from the grave, and they tell him he’s schizophrenic. He doesn't understand his choices, but he is told he has some.

Sherry isn't even 16 yet and she doesn't understand her choices, either. She robotically injects another nearly collapsed vein. Her mother died yesterday — just another overdosed junkie. "Deado-Stinko," as Sherry’s barfly stepfather, her "groomer", would say.

Sherry will miss her mother – she taught her daughter every trick she knew.Too bad for Sherry, the one trick her mother never knew and never taught her was the biggest trick of all, the only trick that saves anyone: free will, free choice.